


Wit And Wisdom

by perhael



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Confessions, First Time, Humor, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 18:41:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perhael/pseuds/perhael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock has his wisdom teeth out and gets talkative, with some rather... <i>interesting</i> consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for a prompt on shkinkmeme.livejournal.com, [here](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21231.html?thread=125059823#t125059823).

"Your hands are amazing. Magnificent. I adore them," Sherlock sighed happily.

"That's great," John said, huffing and puffing as he half-dragged his drugged up flatmate up the seventeen steps to 221B. "Really, I appreciate it. Now if you could just try and support your own weight a little bit more, that'd be fantastic."

"Fan-tas-tic..." Sherlock said dreamily. "You know what else is fantastic? Your arse. Really fan-tas-whatsit. It's so round and firm and, and. Just... really bloody great, your arse."

John's face was beet red. He fumbled with the key in the lock, one arm wrapped firmly around Sherlock's waist as the detective slumped over his shoulder. Eventually he managed to get them both inside, and awkwardly maneuvered Sherlock over to the couch.

"Don' wan couch," Sherlock slurred. "Bed."

"Oh for... alright then," John grumbled. Next time, he'd get Mycroft to pick Sherlock up from the dentist's. Or any other minor surgery. Really, anything that required Sherlock to be sedated. The aftereffects were... well, they were something, alright.

"You're my best friend," Sherlock declared as John hauled him across the living room. "The very best. You're like the Stradivarius of best friends."

Then again, John considered, it wasn't _all_ bad.

"There you go," John said, lowering Sherlock down onto the bed. "Try and sleep it off, okay? I'll make you a nice cup of tea when you wake up."

"Shoes," Sherlock said, looking dazedly down at the offending items adorning his feet.

John heaved the sigh of the long-suffering and got down on one knee to untie Sherlock's shoelaces. Once he'd gotten Sherlock's shoes off, he positioned his friend's long, slender legs in a comfortable position and patted him awkwardly on the ankle.

"Sleep well, Sherlock."

"John..."

"Yes?"

"Have I ever told you that your eyes are my favourite colour in the whole world?"

John pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stave off an imminent headache. "What colour is that, then, Sherlock?"

Sherlock was quiet for a bit. When John opened his eyes, he discovered his flatmate was frowning in a way John desperately tried to convince himself he didn’t find adorable.

"I... guess I don't know how to describe it," Sherlock said, sounding put out. "But I know it's my favourite colour, because they’re _your_ eyes. And you're my John. You're brave and loyal, and you fight with chip-and-pin machines."

"That was one time," John protested, before the rest of the statement settled in. It made him a bit weak in the knees.

"I... Sherlock. You're drugged. Go to sleep, okay? We'll talk about this later. _Or not_ ," he muttered as he quickly exited the room.

Right. Tea first.

He found himself mechanically going through the motions of making tea, his mind preoccupied with Sherlock's uncharacteristically spontaneous and complimentary utterances. Was it just the drugs talking? Or did Sherlock really think... those things? Christ, he'd complimented John's _arse_. If that meant what John thought it meant, then... then what? Then Sherlock Holmes was attracted to him? Maybe even wanted to have sex with him?

All of which begged the question: how did John feel about this? He tried to examine his feelings as dispassionately as possible, but his libido kept getting in the way, letting him know that it was absolutely, completely, one hundred percent on board with all this. In fact, his jeans were starting to feel rather snug.

As he drank his tea, he tried to look at the problem from all angles. First and foremost in his mind was the fact that he didn’t want to lose his best friend. Sex would change things, and there was a significant potential for disaster. _Could be dangerous_ , a voice in the back of his mind whispered, and really, he was fooling no-one, was he? The man he had been lusting after for months-- the man who, in his honest moments, he could admit he was already more than half in love with-- had more or less confessed his affection for John (that whole thing about his eyes? That had to be about more than just physical attraction, surely). There was no way John was going to say no.  


That was, if Sherlock remembered any of this when he woke up.


	2. Chapter 2

After a few hours of futilely trying to distract himself by reading the newspaper and writing his blog, John heard a moan coming from the direction of Sherlock’s bedroom.

“Sherlock? You alright?” he called out.

A louder groan this time. With a sigh, John closed his laptop and went to check on his flatmate.

“Sherlock?” he called softly as he entered the room.

Sherlock opened one bleary eye to squint at him. “Ah, there you are. Tea.”

“Are you alright? You sounded like you were in pain. I can get you some ibuprofen, if you like.”

Sherlock reluctantly pulled himself up into a sitting position. He used his tongue to poke at the empty spaces where his wisdom teeth used to be, and winced.

“Some ibuprofen would be nice. And a cup of tea, if you don’t mind.”

“Don’t poke at it, you’ll reopen the wounds,” John said sternly. “And I’m sure you’re capable of making your own bloody tea.”

Sherlock scowled. “But you promised me tea,” he said. “Before. I distinctly remember you saying... oh!”

John could practically see the memories rushing back into that brilliant, maddening brain.

“Yes, oh,” he said, trying his damndest not to blush. “Apparently, being sedated makes you... talkative.”

To his great satisfaction, it was Sherlock’s turn to blush. The detective seemed torn between burying his face in the sheets and making a mad dash from the room. In the end, he settled for sticking his chin out defiantly and not-quite meeting John’s eyes.

“I remember saying... well. Let’s just say I remember it all, with great clarity. And yet, here you are,” he said, turning his curious gaze on John at last.

“Here I am,” John said, smiling slightly. “What can you deduce from that?”

Sherlock held his gaze. “That either you dismissed my confessions as the ramblings of a drugged mind, or they stirred some measure of interest in you.”

John felt his face heat all the way from his neck to the tips of his ears. “I think you know the answer to that one.”

Sherlock grinned ferally. “Well, I _am_ the world’s only consulting detective. You know,” he continued casually, “I think I’ll skip the tea. And the ibuprofen as well. Did you know that sex is a natural analgesic?”

Well, John had been propositioned in worse ways, when it came down to it.

“I did know that, actually. Doctor, remember?” he said as he started to unbutton his shirt. He was acutely aware of Sherlock’s eyes on him, tracking the movements of his hands.

“You might want to shed some layers, too,” John advised.

Sherlock looked down at himself, suddenly realizing he was still fully dressed save for his shoes. He started pulling off his jacket and shirt without aplomb, apparently in somewhat of a hurry to get naked.

When they were both down to their boxer shorts, Sherlock slid under the covers and held them open invitingly for John to join him.

It was a bit weird, and a bit fast, but God did it feel good to be pressed up against that tall, lanky body. Sherlock’s skin was pale and smooth and nearly hairless, and John found that he could not stop running his hands over all that invitingly bare skin.

Sherlock gently tilted John’s face towards his own, meeting his lips in an unexpectedly tender kiss. John coaxed Sherlock’s lips open with his tongue, tasting Sherlock’s sweet, hot mouth, taking his time to explore thoroughly.

John felt as though they were suspended in time, existing in a bubble where nothing mattered but their mutual exploration and slow, languorous kisses.

Then Sherlock started bucking his hips, rubbing his still-clothed erection into John’s crotch and moaning into his startled mouth. John broke off the kiss, gasping.  


“Fuck, Sherlock. This is... you’re... _fuck_.”

“Quite” -thrust- “coherent” -thrust- “my dear” -thrust- “John,” Sherlock teased, but he sounded a little breathless.

In retaliation, John flipped him onto his back and rolled on top of him, using his hips to pin Sherlock into the mattress.

"Tease," he growled. "Do you have any idea how long I've wanted..."

He stopped short at the vulnerable look on Sherlock's face. 

"You didn't, did you. You really had no idea," he said, wonderingly.

Sherlock locked eyes with him, stubbornly. "I didn't miss the signs of your attraction, if that's what you're thinking. It's just that I... well, I put it down to wishful thinking," he confessed, averting his gaze.

John couldn't help but kiss him.

Sherlock's hips were thrusting upwards, his cock hot and hard through the fabric of his boxer shorts. John reached down and slid his hand into those silk boxers, feeling Sherlock's erection against the palm of his hand. Sherlock panted and thrust harder, seeking friction. John gave it to him, moving his hand up and down, palm flat, pressing Sherlock's cock against his belly. Sherlock's moans were driving John crazy, his own cock aching and creating a damp patch on his boxer shorts.

Their rhythm increased to something almost frantic, both men panting and moaning in between desperate kisses. John was rubbing himself on Sherlock's thigh, using his right hand to steady himself while he used his left to bring Sherlock off. Sherlock's hands were roaming over John's back, his shoulders, up and down the length of his spine, stopping to clutch at him when the sensations became too much.

Finally, their urgent coupling neared its climax. John's gave Sherlock's cock a light squeeze and Sherlock came with a loud moan, spurting come all over own his chest and stomach.

"Sherlock," John panted, taking himself in hand. "Oh, Sherlock. Sherlock..." and spent himself inside his boxers.

He collapsed on top of his flatmate (boyfriend? Lover?), still breathing hard.

"John," Sherlock said, and John had never heard such tenderness in his voice.

He smiled up at his friend ( _lover_ ) and got a lazy, satisfied grin in return.

"You should know," Sherlock said quietly, "that, barring another round of anesthetic, you may never hear me confess my affection for you so openly again. But I want you to know that I meant every word I said."

John kissed him on the lips, smiling. "I know," he said. "Believe me, I know.”


End file.
